Fire Tongue

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His lips were full and very red. As a woman he might have been
considered handsome--even beautiful; in a man this beauty was
unnatural and repellent. He wore Oriental slippers, fur-lined,
and his feet rested on a small ottoman. One long, slender hand
lay upon a cushion placed on the chair arm, and a pretty girl was
busily engaged in manicuring his excellency's nails. Although the
day held every promise of being uncomfortably hot, already a huge
fire was burning in the grate.

As Parker stood before him, the languid, handsome Oriental did
not stir a muscle, merely keeping the gaze of his strange black
eyes fixed upon the nervous cobbler. The manicurist, after one
quick upward glance, continued her work. But in this moment of
distraction she had hurt the cuticle of one of those delicate,
slender fingers.

Ormuz Khan withdrew his hand sharply from the cushion, glanced
aside at the girl, and then, extending his hand again, pushed her
away from him. Because of her half-kneeling posture, she almost
fell, but managed to recover herself by clutching at the edge of
a little table upon which the implements of her trade were
spread. The table rocked and a bowl of water fell crashing on the
carpet. His excellency spoke. His voice was very musical.

"Clumsy fool," he said. "You have hurt me. Go."

The girl became very white and began to gather up the articles
upon the table. "I am sorry," she said, "but--"

"I do not wish you to speak," continued the musical voice; "only
to go."

Hurriedly collecting the remainder of the implements and placing
them in an attache case, the manicurist hurried from the room.
Her eyes were overbright and her lips pathetically tremulous.
Ormuz Khan never glanced in her direction again, but resumed his
disconcerting survey of Parker. "Yes?" he said.

Parker bumblingly began to remove the lid of the cardboard box
which he had brought with him.

"I do not wish you to alter the shoes you have made," said his
excellency. "I instructed you to remeasure my foot in order that
you might make a pair to fit."

"Yes, sir," said Parker. "Quite so, your excellency." And he
dropped the box and the shoes upon the floor. "Just a moment,
sir?"

From an inner pocket he drew out a large sheet of white paper, a
pencil, and a tape measure. "Will you place your foot upon this
sheet of paper, sir?"

Ormuz Khan raised his right foot listlessly.

"Slipper off, please, sir."

"I am waiting," replied the other, never removing his gaze from
Parker's face.

"Oh, I beg your pardon sir, your excellency," muttered the
bootmaker.

Dropping upon one knee, he removed the furred slipper from a
slender, arched foot, bare, of the delicate colour of ivory, and
as small as a woman's.

"Now, sir."

The ivory foot was placed upon the sheet of paper, and very
clumsily Parker drew its outline. He then took certain
measurements and made a number of notes with a stub of thick
pencil. Whenever his none too clean hands touched Ormuz Khan's
delicate skin the Oriental perceptibly shuddered.

"Of course, sir," said Parker at last, "I should really have
taken your measurement with the sock on."

"I wear only the finest silk."

"Very well, sir. As you wish."

Parker replaced paper, pencil, and measure, and, packing up the
rejected shoes, made for the door.

"Oh, bootmaker!" came the musical voice.

Parker turned. "Yes, sir?"

"They will be ready by Monday?"

"If possible, your excellency."

"Otherwise I shall not accept them."

Ormuz Khan drew a hyacinth from a vase close beside him and
languidly waved it in dismissal.

In the outer room the courteous secretary awaited Parker, and
there was apparently no one else in the place, for the Hindu
conducted him to the lobby and opened the door.

Parker said "Good morning, sir," and would have departed without
his hat had not the secretary smilingly handed it to him.

When, presently, the cobbler emerged from the elevator, below, he
paused before leaving the hotel to mop his perspiring brow with a
large, soiled handkerchief. The perfume of hyacinths seemed to
have pursued him, bringing with it a memory of the handsome,
effeminate ivory face of the man above. He was recalled to his
senses by the voice of the impudent page.

"Been kicked out, gov'nor?" the youth inquired. "You're the third
this morning."

"Is that so?" answered Parker. "Who were the other two, lad?"

"The girl wot comes to do his nails. A stunnin' bird, too. She
came down cryin' a few minutes ago. Then--"

"Shut up, Chivers!" cried the hall porter. "You're asking for the
sack, and I'm the man to get it for you."

Chivers did not appear to be vastly perturbed by this prospect,
and he grinned agreeably at Parker as the latter made his way out
into the courtyard.

Any one sufficiently interested to have done so might have found
matter for surprise had he followed that conscientious bootmaker
as he left the hotel. He did not proceed to the shop of Mr.
Jarvis, but, crossing the Strand, mounted a citybound motor bus
and proceeded eastward upon it as far as the Law Courts. Here he
dismounted and plunged into that maze of tortuous lanes which
dissects the triangle formed by Chancery Lane and Holborn.

His step was leisurely, and once he stopped to light his pipe,
peering with interest into the shop window of a law stationer.
Finally he came to another little shop which had once formed part
of a private house. It was of the lock-up variety, and upon the
gauze blind which concealed the interior appeared the words: "The
Chancery Agency."

Whether the Chancery Agency was a press agency, a literary or a
dramatic agency, was not specified, but Mr. Parker was evidently
well acquainted with the establishment, for he unlocked the door
with a key which he carried and, entering a tiny shop, closed and
locked the door behind him again.

The place was not more than ten yards square and the ceiling was
very low. It was barely furnished as an office, but evidently Mr.
Parker's business was not of a nature to detain him here. There
was a second door to be unlocked; and beyond it appeared a flight
of narrow stairs--at some time the servant's stair of the
partially demolished house which had occupied that site in former
days. Relocking this door in turn, Mr. Parker mounted the stair
and presently found himself in a spacious and well-furnished
bedroom.

This bedroom contained an extraordinary number of wardrobes, and
a big dressing table with wing mirrors lent a theatrical touch to
the apartment. This was still further enhanced by the presence of
all sorts of wigs, boxes of false hair, and other items of
make-up. At the table Mr. Parker seated himself, and when, half
an hour later, the bedroom door was opened, it was not Mr. Parker
who crossed the book-lined study within and walked through to the
private office where Innes was seated writing. It was Mr. Paul
Harley.

CHAPTER XI. THE PURPLE STAIN

For more than an hour Harley sat alone, smoking, neglectful of
the routine duties which should have claimed his attention. His
face was set and grim, and his expression one of total
abstraction. In spirit he stood again in that superheated room at
the Savoy. Sometimes, as he mused, he would smoke with
unconscious vigour, surrounding himself with veritable fog banks.
An imaginary breath of hyacinths would have reached him, to
conjure up vividly the hateful, perfumed environment of Ormuz
Khan.

He was savagely aware of a great mental disorderliness. He
recognized that his brain remained a mere whirlpool from which
Phyllis Abingdon, the deceased Sir Charles, Nicol Brinn, and
another, alternately arose to claim supremacy. He clenched his
teeth upon the mouthpiece of his pipe.

But after some time, although rebelliously, his thoughts began to
marshal themselves in a certain definite formation. And
outstanding, alone, removed from the ordinary, almost from the
real, was the bizarre personality of Ormuz Khan.

The data concerning the Oriental visitor, as supplied by
Inspector Wessex, had led him to expect quite a different type of
character. Inured as Paul Harley was to surprise, his first
sentiment as he had set eyes upon the man had been one of sheer
amazement.

"Something of a dandy," inadequately described the repellent
sensuousness of this veritable potentate, who could contrive to
invest a sitting room in a modern hotel with the atmosphere of a
secret Eastern household. To consider Ormuz Khan in connection
with matters of international finance was wildly incongruous,
while the manicurist incident indicated an inherent cruelty only
possible in one of Oriental race.

In a mood of complete mental detachment Paul Harley found himself
looking again into those black, inscrutable eyes and trying to
analyze the elusive quality of their regard. They were unlike any
eyes that he had met with. It were folly to count their possessor
a negligible quantity. Nevertheless, it was difficult, because of
the fellow's scented effeminacy, to believe that women could find
him attractive. But Harley, wise in worldly lore, perceived that
the mystery surrounding Ormuz Khan must make a strong appeal to a
certain type of female mind. He was forced to admit that some
women, indeed many, would be as clay in the hands of the man who
possessed those long-lashed, magnetic eyes.

He thought of the pretty manicurist. Mortification he had read in
her white face, and pain; but no anger. Yes, Ormuz Khan was
dangerous.

In what respect was he dangerous?

"Phil Abingdon!" Harley whispered, and, in the act of breathing
the name, laughed at his own folly.

In the name of reason, he mused, what could she find to interest
her in a man of Ormuz Khan's type? He was prepared to learn that
there was a mystic side to her personality--a phase in her
character which would be responsive to the outre and romantic.
But he was loath to admit that she could have any place in her
affections for the scented devotee of hyacinths.

Thus, as always, his musings brought him back to the same point.
He suppressed a groan and, standing up, began to pace the room.
To and fro he walked, before the gleaming cabinet, and presently
his expression underwent a subtle change. His pipe had long since
gone out, but he had failed to observe the fact. His eyes had
grown unusually bright--and suddenly he stepped to the table and
stooping made a note upon the little writing block.

He rang the bell communicating with the outer office. Innes came
in. "Innes," he said, rapidly, "is there anything of really
first-rate importance with which I should deal personally?"

"Well," replied the secretary, glancing at some papers which he
carried, "there is nothing that could not wait until to-morrow at
a pinch."

"The pinch has come," said Harley. "I am going to interview the
two most important witnesses in the Abingdon case."

"To whom do you refer, Mr. Harley?"

Innes stared rather blankly, as he made the inquiry, whereupon:

"I have no time to explain," continued Harley. "But I have
suddenly realized the importance of a seemingly trivial incident
which I witnessed. It is these trivial incidents, Innes, which so
often contain the hidden clue."

"What! you really think you have a clue at last?"

"I do." The speaker's face grew grimly serious. "Innes, if I am
right, I shall probably proceed to one of two places: the
apartments of Ormuz Khan or the chambers of Nicol Brinn. Listen.
Remain here until I phone--whatever the hour."

"Shall I advise Wessex to stand by?"

Harley nodded. "Yes--do so. You understand, Innes, I am engaged
and not to be disturbed on any account?"

"I understand. You are going out by the private exit?"

"Exactly."

As Innes retired, quietly closing the door, Harley took up the
telephone and called Sir Charles Abingdon's number. He was
answered by a voice which he recognized.

"This is Paul Harley speaking," he said. "Is that Benson?"

"Yes, sir," answered the butler. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Benson. I have one or two questions to ask you,
and there is something I want you to do for me. Miss Abingdon is
out, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," replied Benson, sadly. "At the funeral, sir."

"Is Mrs. Howett in?"

"She is, sir."

"I shall be around in about a quarter of an hour, Benson. In the
meantime, will you be good enough to lay the dining table exactly
as it was laid on the night of Sir Charles's death?"

Benson could be heard nervously clearing his throat, then:
"Perhaps, sir," he said, diffidently, "I didn't quite understand
you. Lay the table, sir, for dinner?"

"For dinner--exactly. I want everything to be there that was
present on the night of the tragedy; everything. Naturally you
will have to place different flowers in the vases, but I want to
see the same vases. From the soup tureen to the serviette rings,
Benson, I wish you to duplicate the dinner table as I remember
it, paying particular attention to the exact position of each
article. Mrs. Howett will doubtless be able to assist you in
this."

"Very good, sir," said Benson--but his voice betokened
bewilderment. "I will see Mrs. Howett at once, sir."

"Right. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir."

Replacing the receiver, Harley took a bunch of keys from his
pocket and, crossing the office, locked the door. He then retired
to his private apartments and also locked the communicating door.
A few moments later he came out of "The Chancery Agency" and
proceeded in the direction of the Strand. Under cover of the
wire-gauze curtain which veiled the window he had carefully
inspected the scene before emerging. But although his eyes were
keen and his sixth sense whispered "Danger--danger!" he had failed
to detect anything amiss.

This constant conflict between intuition and tangible evidence
was beginning to tell upon him. Either his sixth sense had begun
to play tricks or he was the object of the most perfectly
organized and efficient system of surveillance with which he had
ever come in contact. Once, in the past, he had found himself
pitted against the secret police of Moscow, and hitherto he had
counted their methods incomparable. Unless he was the victim of
an unpleasant hallucination, those Russian spies had their peers
in London.

As he alighted from a cab before the house of the late Sir
Charles, Benson opened the door. "We have just finished, sir," he
said, as Harley ran up the steps. "But Mrs. Howett would like to
see you, sir."

"Very good, Benson," replied Harley, handing his hat and cane to
the butler. "I will see her in the dining room, please."

Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room
which so often figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid
for dinner in accordance with his directions. The chair which he
remembered to have occupied was in place and that in which Sir
Charles had died was set at the head of the table.

Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking
slowly about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough
drew his gaze to the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was
Mrs. Howett, a pathetic little figure in black.

"Ah, Mrs. Howett," said Harley; kindly, "please try to forgive me
for this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a
good reason. I think you know this. Now, as I am naturally
anxious to have everything clear before Miss Abingdon returns,
will you be good enough to tell me if the table is at present set
exactly as on the night that Sir Charles and I came in to
dinner?"

"No, Mr. Harley," was the answer, "that was what I was anxious to
explain. The table is now laid as Benson left it on that dreadful
night."

"Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some modifications?"

"I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre vase so." The
methodical old lady illustrated her words. "I also had the
dessert spoons changed. You remember, Benson?"

Benson inclined his head. From a sideboard he took out two silver
spoons which he substituted for those already set upon the table.

"Anything else, Mrs. Howett?"

"The table is now as I left it, sir, a few minutes before your
arrival. Just after your arrival I found Jones, the
parlourmaid--a most incompetent, impudent girl--altering the
position of the serviettes. At least, such was my impression."

"Of the serviettes?" murmured Harley.

"She denied it," continued the housekeeper, speaking with great
animation; "but she could give no explanation. It was the last
straw. She took too many liberties altogether."

As Harley remained silent, the old lady ran on animatedly, but
Harley was no longer listening.

"This is not the same table linen?" he asked, suddenly.

"Why, no, sir," replied Benson. "Last week's linen will be at the
laundry."

"It has not gone yet," interrupted Mrs. Howett. "I was making up
the list when you brought me Mr. Harley's message."

Paul Harley turned to her.

"May I ask you to bring the actual linen used at table on that
occasion, Mrs. Howett?" he said. "My request must appear
singular, I know, but I assure you it is no idle one."

Benson looked positively stupid, but Mrs. Howett, who had
conceived a sort of reverence for Paul Harley, hurried away
excitedly.

"Finally, Benson," said Harley, "what else did you bring into the
room after Sir Charles and I had entered?"

"Soup, sir. Here is the tureen, on the sideboard, and all the
soup plates of the service in use that night. Of course, sir, I
can't say which were the actual plates used."

Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old Derby ware,
and gazed meditatively at the silver ladle. "Did the maid, Jones,
handle any of these?" he asked.

"No, sir"--emphatically. "She was preparing to bring the trout
from the kitchen."

"But I saw her in the room."

"She had brought in the fish plates, a sauce boat, and two toast
racks, sir. She put them here, on the sideboard. But they were
never brought to the table."

"H'm. Has Jones left?"

"Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her rudeness, Mrs.
Howett packed her off right away. She left the very next day
after poor Sir Charles died."

"Where has she gone?"

"To a married sister, I believe, until she finds a new job. Mrs.
Howett has the address."

At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a tablecloth and a
number of serviettes.

"This was the cloth," she said, spreading it out, "but which of
the serviettes were used I cannot say."

"Allow me to look," replied Paul Harley.

One by one he began to inspect the serviettes, opening each in
turn and examining it critically.

"What have we here!" he exclaimed, presently. "Have blackberries
been served within the week, Mrs. Howett?"

"We never had them on the table, Mr. Harley. Sir Charles--God
rest him--said they irritated the stomach. Good gracious!" She
turned to Benson. "How is it I never noticed those stains, and
what can have caused them?"

The serviette which Paul Harley held outstretched was covered all
over with dark purple spots.

CHAPTER XII. THE VEIL IS RAISED

Rising from the writing table in the library, Paul Harley crossed
to the mantelpiece and stared long and hungrily at a photograph
in a silver frame. So closely did he concentrate upon it that he
induced a sort of auto-hypnosis, so that Phil Abingdon seemed to
smile at him sadly. Then a shadow appeared to obscure the piquant
face. The soft outline changed, subtly; the lips grew more full,
became voluptuous; the eyes lengthened and grew languorous. He
found himself looking into the face of Ormuz Khan.

"Damn it!" he muttered, awakened from his trance.

He turned aside, conscious of a sudden, unaccountable chill. It
might have been caused by the mental picture which he had
conjured up, or it might be another of those mysterious warnings
of which latterly he had had so many without encountering any
positive danger. He stood quite still, listening.

Afterward he sometimes recalled that moment, and often enough
asked himself what he had expected to hear. It was from this
room, on an earlier occasion, that he had heard the ominous
movements in the apartment above. To-day he heard nothing.

"Benson," he called, opening the library door. As the man came
along the hall: "I have written a note to Mr. Innes, my
secretary," he explained. "There it is, on the table. When the
district messenger, for whom you telephoned, arrives, give him
the parcel and the note. He is to accept no other receipt than
that of Mr. Innes."

"Very good, sir."

Harley took his hat and cane, and Benson opened the front door.

"Good day, sir," said the butler.

"Good day, Benson," called Harley, hurrying out to the waiting
cab. "Number 236 South Lambeth Road," he directed the man.

Off moved the taxi, and Harley lay back upon the cushions heaving
a long sigh. The irksome period of inaction was ended. The cloud
which for a time had dulled his usually keen wits was lifted. He
was by no means sure that enlightenment had come in time, but at
least he was in hot pursuit of a tangible clue, and he must hope
that it would lead him, though tardily, to the heart of this
labyrinth which concealed--what?

Which concealed something, or someone, known and feared as
Fire-Tongue.

For the moment he must focus upon establishing, beyond query or
doubt, the fact that Sir Charles Abingdon had not died from
natural causes. Premonitions, intuitions, beliefs resting upon a
foundation of strange dreams--these were helpful to himself, if
properly employed, but they were not legal evidence. This first
point achieved, the motive of the crime must be sought; and
then--the criminal.

"One thing at a time," Harley finally murmured.

Turning his head, he glanced back at the traffic in the street
behind him. The action was sheerly automatic. He had ceased to
expect to detect the presence of any pursuer. Yet he was
convinced that his every movement was closely watched. It was
uncanny, unnerving, this consciousness of invisible surveillance.
Now, as he looked, he started. The invisible had become the
visible.

His cab was just on the point of turning on to the slope of
Vauxhall Bridge. And fifty yards behind, speeding along the
Embankment, was a small French car. The features of the driver he
had no time to observe. But, peering eagerly through the window,
showed the dark face of the passenger. The man's nationality it
was impossible to determine, but the keen, almost savage
interest, betrayed by the glittering black eyes, it was equally
impossible to mistake.

If the following car had turned on to the bridge, Harley, even
yet, might have entertained a certain doubt. But, mentally
putting himself in the pursuer's place, he imagined himself
detected and knew at once exactly what he should do. Since this
hypothetical course was actually pursued by the other, Harley's
belief was confirmed.

Craning his neck, he saw the little French car turn abruptly and
proceed in the direction of Victoria Station. Instantly he acted.

Leaning out of the window he thrust a ten-shilling note into the
cabman's hand. "Slow down, but don't pull up," he directed. "I am
going to jump out just as you pass that lorry ahead. Ten yards
further on stop. Get down and crank your engine, and then proceed
slowly over the bridge. I shall not want you again."

"Right-oh, sir," said the man, grinning broadly. As a result,
immediately he was afforded the necessary cover, Harley jumped
from the cab. The man reached back and closed the door,
proceeding on his leisurely way. Excepting the driver of the
lorry, no one witnessed this eccentric performance, and Harley,
stepping on to the footpath, quietly joined the stream of
pedestrians and strolled slowly along.

He presently passed the stationary cab without giving any sign of
recognition to the dismounted driver. Then, a minute later, the
cab overtook him and was soon lost in the traffic ahead. Even as
it disappeared another cab went by rapidly.

Leaning forward in order to peer through the front window was the
dark-faced man whom he had detected on the Embankment!

"Quite correct," murmured Harley, dryly. "Exactly what I should
have done."

The spy, knowing himself discovered, had abandoned his own car in
favour of a passing taxicab, and in the latter had taken up the
pursuit.

Paul Harley lighted a cigarette. Oddly enough, he was aware of a
feeling of great relief. In the first place, his sixth sense had
been triumphantly vindicated; and, in the second place, his
hitherto shadowy enemies, with their seemingly supernatural
methods, had been unmasked. At least they were human, almost
incredibly clever, but of no more than ordinary flesh and blood.

The contest had developed into open warfare. Harley's accurate
knowledge of London had enabled him to locate No. 236 South
Lambeth Road without recourse to a guide, and now, walking on
past the big gas works and the railway station, he turned under
the dark arches and pressed on to where a row of unprepossessing
dwellings extended in uniform ugliness from a partly demolished
building to a patch of waste ground.

That the house was being watched he did not doubt. In fact, he no
longer believed subterfuge to be of any avail. He was dealing
with dangerously accomplished criminals. How clever they were he
had yet to learn; and it was only his keen intuitive which at
this juncture enabled him to score a point over his cunning
opponents.

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